Belief comes hard
to many contemporary Jews. We have good reasons to be disenchanted with religion,
and profoundly distrustful of religion. For we Jews know the dangers of religious
zealotry and fanaticism, and we have first-hand knowledge that the world is
not a sunny place, guided by some benevolent master plan. We know that those
who once believed in such a master plan were mowed down by the Nazis; nine out
of ten rabbis alive in the world were murdered in the Holocaust, along with
millions of their faithful and pious followers.

So it’s
understandable that many Jews have given up faith in God. What’s more,
I would say that some kinds of faith deserve to be given up, deserve to be grown
out of --or, better yet, we should not inflict such faith on children in the
first place. But there’s also the kind of faith that Alvin Fine is talking
about – the faith which we can grow into, the faith that comes with wisdom,
with maturity, as a sign of inner strength. The kind of faith that can help
us face our fears.

A story about
faith from the 18th century, the early days of the Hasidim. Once there was a
learned man, a man who prided himself on his education, and who boasted of being
modern and “enlightened.” He made a practice of going from one rabbi
to another to debate with them about their faith and refute all their claims
and arguments, which he considered hopelessly old-fashioned.

Finally
he came to Levi Yitzhak, the rabbi of Berdichev, hoping to prove him wrong,
as well. When he entered the rabbi’s room, he saw him pacing back and
forth, a book in his hand, immersed in ecstatic thought. The rabbi took no notice
of his visitor. But after a while the rabbi stopped, looked into the man’s
eyes and said, “Perhaps it is true after all!”

The man was shaken;
he could not speak. Then Rabbi Levi Yitzhak spoke gently to his guest: “My
son, the great Torah scholars with whom you argued wasted their words on you.
After you left them, you only laughed at what they had said. They could not
place God on the table before you, they could not show you God’s reality,
and neither can I. But think, my son. Just think! Perhaps it is true. Perhaps
it is true after all.”

The enlightened
man made the utmost effort to reply, but the word “perhaps” beat
on his ears again and again, and he departed in silence.

Why would a person
go from rabbi to rabbi, from one person of faith to another, in order to challenge
and prove them wrong? If he was really certain that religion was utter foolishness,
why not just ignore it? I think the man in our story keeps coming to argue because
he himself wants to be convinced. Maybe we want to be convinced, as well. Maybe
something in us yearns for a faith that can make sense to people like us –
modern, sensible, enlightened.

How does Rabbi
Levi Yitzhak respond to his visitor? He doesn’t reject him or attack him
for his doubts. He doesn’t debate with him either, but states flat out
that he can’t offer definitive proof that God is real. He offers him,
instead, just one word: “perhaps.”

It doesn’t
sound like much, at first. You’d think that a great religious leader should
be able to come up with more than “perhaps.” But Rabbi Levi understands
that “perhaps” is irrefutable. It simply opens the door to the possibility
that God is, and that there may be something to religion, after all. [See “Perhaps”
– sermon by Rabbi Jan Urbach, Rh 5762]

Immature faith
is rooted in certainty, a conviction that it alone possesses the truth. It cannot
tolerate ambiguity or doubt; it is threatened by opposing views. Far stronger
is a Jewish faith that is rooted in “perhaps.”

Mature faith understands
that all thoughtful people have doubts and must live with uncertainty. It is
gentle, modest and humble in its assertions. It does not make grandiose pronouncements
or give absolute assurances. Mature faith respects the world’s complexity;
it acknowledges that there are many paths to truth; it does not seek to denigrate
or dominate others through dogma.